


Clean Slates

by sambastian



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, M/M, just fluff, that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambastian/pseuds/sambastian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, literally, tells his favorite parts of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean Slates

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago. It was my very first Sambastian fic and I'm very proud of it. This then allowed me to spiral down into my love for Sambastian. It's obsessive really.

There were a lot of parts of any given day that Sam liked.

Mornings held runs; he wouldn’t function without burning off the energy he somehow managed to have at five a.m. He could run for miles and miles, until his thighs began to protest, until he was drenched in sweat, until the sun threatened to burn him alive. He would run until his limbs ached (but oh, how it ached so good), until his stomach rumbled from a skipped breakfast, until his legs threatened to give out from underneath him. Running home was the best part, waving at his neighbors, the girls that would stand on their doorsteps under pretenses of grabbing the morning newspapers they had no intentions of reading, walking their dogs, walking their _little brothers_. Sam would smile playfully, pick up his speed, until he was home.

Breakfast was just as good as the running. Be it cereal, last night’s Thai, or homemade crepes drizzled with chocolate syrup and filled with strawberries, Sam didn’t care. He was a dude, and he liked to eat, and breakfast was the most important meal of the day. He adored cooking with Stevie and Stacey, and the way they ended up with powdered sugar smeared on their faces or chocolate covered hands made him laugh as he cleaned them up and got them ready for school.

Sam didn’t like school.

He checked out mentally unless he was in science or gym or glee, but other than that, his days fast forwarded through those dreadful eight hours where embarrassment would color his cheeks as he was forced to read aloud from boring text books, tripping over words that jumbled and became unpronounceable.

School definitely wasn’t his favorite part of the day.

Football practices; almost as great as the actual games. It was always worth the bruises, the face plants into the grass, the body slams. The victory was worth the work, the literal blood, sweat, and almost tears (he didn’t cry during football; there was no crying in football).

Afterwards, though, were the long drives (as if he wasn’t tired already), just under two hours from McKinley. But this was his next-to-favorite part of the day, when it was just him, the anticipation riding his skin, his mind reeling. The events of the day would replay, whether or not they had been good. He would think about the good steadiness of his morning runs, the silliness at the breakfast table, skipping classes because why, _why_ relive the drab, dull days in the classroom? He’d think about Rachel’s choice solo (or duet, depending on her mood really), the quick sassy wit Santana never kept to herself, the way she and Britt were all smiles with no one else but each other. He’d think about Kurt and Mercedes talking about people he had no clue existed, really, and everyone else; Mike, Quinn, and Blaine, Tina, Sugar, and Finn, Puck and himself; singing and dancing, and making a dumb classroom, an empty auditorium feel a lot like _home_.

The music played low, some twangy guitar today, and Sam sang along, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he played stop-and-go with the street lights.

Two hours never really felt like two hours, though, not when, at the finish line, was his favorite part of any day.

He would park his car in the parking lot, locking it behind him before walking to the large building, glass doors opening against his hands. He’d navigate the well-known hallways (quickly, because he doesn’t want to get caught and thrown out; the night will go from favorite to shitty in about zero-point-two seconds), and run up a flight a stairs, until he’s in the dormitories. He’d walk down some more hallways, though he’s a lot more smiley, his steps quicker and a lot more jumpy. He’s excited, because for the last who-knows-how-many months, this is the best part.

He’d turn the handle of the door (always unlocked) and push the door open. The room would be empty, but he’d hear the shower running (Warblers' rehearsals ran late and lacrosse practice even later). He’d kick off his shoes, though, shrug off his jacket, lay it across the back of the desk chair, and stretch his body across the mattress. Sometimes he’d turn on the television and pick out a game to kill time, but most nights, he’d just wait, humming some wordless tune underneath his breath until the shower shuts off.

It’s almost stupid, he thinks, the way he’d bite down on his bottom lip and wait minutes, which seem a lot like forever. And every day, it’s the same things over and over again, but it’s this—the ability to walk in and wait, to smile and laugh with this one person, this unexpected person, after months and months of, well, _waiting_ , was super awesome. It started with a dance, a kiss, an exchange of a few choice words, and now it’s this, long drives just to spend a little more than a few hours with each other, putting in movies in the DVD player and not watching them, not really, wanting to stay the whole night, but knowing he has to go home.

It’s one of those feelings he can’t describe, not even if he tried.

If there’s anything that’s impossible, it’s that, right there.

The bathroom door opens, and his favorite part of the day begins, the same way it always, always does. Most people get sick of the routine, the habits, but Sam can count on him, count on this, a grin stretched from ear to ear, wet hair, and twinkling eyes. There’s a _Hey, Tiger_ , like there always is, as Sebastian throws the towel in the hamper next to his desk. His clothes are sticking to him, all over, because his body is still wet from the shower, and every night, Sam wishes that Sebastian would have just not bothered. Everyone (including the man himself) know that Sebastian’s like, the hottest guy on the whole planet, but it’s this time, when school is over, when there’s no more practice and it’s just them (Sam likes thinking that way, them, them, them, _us_ ). There’s no leaving, no fighting, (stay, stay, stay) and it’s just them. Usually, Sam would have had a movie picked out so they could not watch it (because kissing Sebastian is the best, and going further is even better), but he doesn’t.

Sitting on the bed, he’s still, waiting for Sebastian to cross the room to him, long strides and a fading grin (his eyes are still twinkling, they’re always shining) until they’re face to face.

The sun drains from the bedroom, and all there’s left is a dusty, early-evening glow that casts on the walls.

Mouths press hard against each other, but hands are lazy to find skin. _I missed you_ ’s and _Take this off_ ’s are tossed back and forth until there are more clothes on the floor than on either body, until the blankets are being pushed off the bed from kicking legs. Sam is stretched out, his eyes blinking lazily, and Sebastian is taking his time, like there’s days and weeks instead of hours (just a few, only a few, always a few). Sam’s fingers catch on the green bracelet tied around Sebastian’s wrists, as his other hand moves up to tangle in dark, thick hair.

It’s this, this right here, being with him. It’s how the minutes pause and Sam’s heart slows down just a little bit, when he catches a glimpse of Sebastian’s grin right before everything becomes warm, hot and their bodies are pressed so close together Sam can’t breathe. But when he does, he breathes in Sebastian’s scent; it’s everything he knows, and everything he doesn’t and his heart is pounding and his mind fills with chaos. There’s only a little while until he has to go, and he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about anything other than Sebastian being inside of him, but it’s like he can’t hold on tight enough, can’t catch his breath, can’t s l o w d o w n t i m e, and he wishes he could, wishes they could stay like this for a long, long time.

His back arches and his body shakes and his voice is strangled when he says Sebastian’s name, and it’s over. All Sam knows for these moments is _Don’t let go_ , but he doesn’t say anything, just lays there, because he can’t move, doesn’t _want_ to move. His fingers catch against Sebastian’s green bracelet again, and it makes him smile. For these few moments, Sebastian is his. He doesn’t know how long that will last, if it’ll even last at all, but knowing that makes his heart swell, and his body shiver the tiniest bit. He leans over to where Sebastian is lying on his stomach, eyes closed and a secret smile curving his lips, to kiss him.

There just aren’t enough hours in the day.

He knows this, Sebastian knows this, everyone in the whole, over-populated, entirety of this busy, busy world knows this.

But Sam is pulling on his jeans, his shirt, his shoes, his jacket, in between kisses and Sebastian trying to take them all off again. There’s smiles and laughter and Sam can’t get over the way Sebastian’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles too widely. They sparkle, but they’re always shining, always happy, and it’s the second-best feeling knowing that Sam’s the cause of that. He makes someone happy and, well, that makes him happy.

It’s when Sebastian finally gets out of bed, dresses decently enough to walk Sam down to his car, that the excitement builds up to an overly-ridiculous amount. It’s when Sebastian pushes Sam against his truck for one last goodnight kiss and then pulls away. It’s the _Love you, Sammy_ , that’s the best part of any given day, any part of the not-enough twenty four hour period that is Sam’s favorite. It’s the way Sebastian rolls his eyes when Sam answers with, _Score_ , all too playfully.

It’s the _Love you, too, Seb_ , that makes Sam’s heart jump in his chest and his stomach flutter at the same time. Because it’s like the very first time, riddled with nerves and a couple of doubts and maybes and what if’s, every single time. So good, so terrifying, so very, very awesome.

There were a lot of parts of any given day that Sam liked.

But that was absolutely, without a doubt, hands down, his favorite part.


End file.
